Hate in the Time of Horcruxes
by belladonnacordial
Summary: Properly, Harry hates Snape, just as Snape very properly hates Harry. As everyone else knows, there is nothing proper between those two. Warnings for sex, sarcasm, SSHP SLASH, socks, and slight SMBD themes. Please! Don't read, if not your cup of tea!


Fanfiction. Not mine. JK Rowling. This is not based on any particular work by Garcia-Marquez though the title is a corruption of Love in the Time of Cholera. I've been reading a lot of Gabriel Garcia-Marquez lately. prompt is the word proper.

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**_Hate in the Time of Horcruxes_**

Now, nearly six months after Harry should have graduated from Hogwarts, he hasn't. Voldemort is still alive. Dumbledore is still dead. Snape, Dumbledore's accomplice in suicide or self-sacrifice, is now a fugitive from both sides. And he, Harry Potter, isn't safe. He isn't safe anywhere anymore and is certainly not even as safe here as he would be anywhere else. Here, he is way out on a limb.

How he and Severus Snape ended up here, hiding out together in this simple Muggle flat in Leeds, is a story perhaps a bit more likely than a Wolfsbane Potion brewed by Neville Longbottom. How truly unlikely then, that both those events would occur, though both did.

Much later in life, Harry wouldn't remember what provoked this one particular row or how it had escalated to become physical. What Harry would recall was how at the end of his rope and out of control he had felt, emotionally, mentally, physically, and magically, and how annoyingly easily Snape had restrained him with nothing more magical than a well-timed bear hug.

"I hate you," Harry tries to say with all the appropriate force and proper feeling behind it. As he opens his mouth, somehow that very -proper- but tired old sentiment transfigures itself into something shiny and new, a heart-stopping, soul-felt, life-changing moan to be precise that Harry quickly presses (since it quite properly has nothing to do with him) as far away from himself as possible, right up against the lips of Severus Snape.

If Snape's body feels hot to the touch, and it does, his mouth is a furnace. That deepening first kiss ignites something incendiary in Harry too. Now Harry is fire itself but not that kindly fire that purifies as it burns and leaves clean bone and ash in its wake or sometimes a homely young Phoenix. No. This is a dark and magical fire indeed, the sort that once kindled feeds not unlike hatred, even in a vacuum, even cannibalizing itself if necessary. But Harry's soul is far more cornucopia than void; and oh how brightly he burns!

That first kiss delves his darknesses, lights Harry's insides, and exorcises his inner demons, driving them out of their individual cupboards of the past both possessive and imperfect, and into the white hot laser lights of the tense present to techno, trance, jungle, and hip-hop, to rave the moon down and the sun up, leaving Harry gaping, wide-eyed, silent, motionless, but somehow miraculously alive, though he knows that kiss has killed, resurrected, and killed him again.

Now Snape stares down at Harry for what seems to Harry a breathless eternity, then answers the words that Harry never spoke with, "I know." When Snape softly brushes his long smooth fingers over Harry's face, Harry wonders if Snape hears every word that Harry never speaks and knows that every unspoken word means precisely what neither of them will ever say or even think. His only answer comes when Snape promptly takes Harry's mouth again because it is nigh irresistible- self-bitten so garishly red and full, self-sucked so obscenely ripe and raw, a wet, hot heaven so welcoming, so attainable, so sweetly upturned, so hungry just for him, and so conveniently there!

Oh how Harry Potter struggles against Severus Snape. He struggles and fights with every ounce of himself, to get closer to Snape, to mold his body into Snape's, and to meld until they are a single entity, until they are the whole world, the universe itself, whatever existed before it and what ever shall remain when all else is gone, because he doesn't want Snape, because he doesn't want them, and because he doesn't want this... ever to begin or ever to end.

Just then, Snape releases him with enough force to send Harry staggering backward. Snape's cruel black eyes gleam at him dangerously, deviously, and scariest of all, playfully! Harry knows right then that he should leave, run to his room, perhaps, or at least have some bloody idea where his wand might be. To perform an Accio to find his wand, right now, right here in Snape's, er, presence- well, how weak is that?

"Do you even remember when last you used it?" Snape smirks at whichever dumb expression Harry currently wears. So, Harry does his best to look dangerous instead, which after all Harry truly is, and growls out, "Quit reading my mind!"

"As if-" Snape starts then smirks again, allowing Harry's mind the rare opportunity to write the punchline to its own insult providing that Harry's mind can even think while Snape's hands are sliding all over Harry's clothing, stopping here and there to unbutton or unzip as Snape sees fit. Harry toes out of his trainers and kicks them off madly. Somewhere, something made of glass shatters. Neither of them bother to notice what. One of Harry's socks somehow ends up draped over Snape's left shoulder though. Harry reaches for it and pulls back a stinging, well-slapped hand for his trouble.

"Did I tell you that you may have that back?"

And yes, Harry is furious, not to mention naked! He hadn't even wanted that sock until now! Still, all he sees is Snape smirking that particular smirk of his at him, that one which somehow manages to convey both predatory hunger toward Harry and deepest satisfaction toward self. Snape dangles the sock for him to grab, between them, tauntingly, so that the woolen toe just brushes Harry's very hard and oh so sensitive erection. Harry is still angry of course but hasn't the slightest idea why now. Not that it matters that he has forgotten since Harry is still very naked and even more hard now, all in all a fine combination for Harry, considering that Snape is stalking tight circles around him, brushing his sleeves teasingly against him, and torturing Harry's bare skin with his own woolie sock. That bastard!

Suddenly Snape stops behind him, tosses the sock away, and slides his hands up Harry's quivering thighs, holding his hips quite firmly in a way that Harry can't help but like- a lot. He pulls Harry to him so that Harry can feel just exactly how much Snape wants Harry, before merrily biting his ear and shoving him away again. Harry can only groan at the loss of all contact.

Now Snape is in front of him somehow, poking Harry's breastbone with his wand, probably just to show off the fact that Severus Snape always knows exactly where Severus Snape's wand is! But no, he starts advancing. This action quite naturally sends Harry stumbling blindly backward. Snape keeps steering and poking Harry until Harry's legs connect with Snape's bed causing his knees to buckle slightly before falling backward onto it.

"Did I tell you that you could smile?" Snape asks, not even bothering to look to see that Harry was smiling while he tucks his wand under the nearest pillow. Harry does his best not to, which means his ever-so-slight grin starts showing teeth. Then Harry starts to laugh, quite hysterically too, and can't seem to stop until, "Ow!" Snape swoops down and bites Harry on the thigh.

"Do not smile. If you had any sense at all, you would look -properly- terrified."

"Oh, I am. Really." Harry hopes he has managed to sound every bit as bored as he isn't.

"Did I command that you speak?" Snape licks a long slow path from Harry's pink bite mark to Harry's hipbone never managing to touch Harry's cock at all, not even by accident. "Do not thrash so. Screaming is acceptable."

"Please?"

Then Snape bends over him by holding both his wrists. Snape's is a singularly ugly face blotting out the even uglier florescent light over Snape's bed. That face lowers to Harry's slowly, inch by inch, reminiscent of every Muggle horror movie Harry has ever seen. "Oh yes, by all means, do beg," say Snape's lips silkily while ghosting against Harry's own for but a maddening second before Snape stands again and starts, very slowly and as if he has all the time there is in existence, to undress.

Snape seems to want to make this event as solemn and terrifying as any in the long history of striptease. First, he unbuttons and steps out of his robes letting them swoosh to the floor. Then he unbuttons his cuffs, first the left, then the right, and the collar of his shirt. Next he starts on the top-most in a long series of tiny black buttons running the entire length of his undercoat, which Harry notices for the first time is an even darker black than the very dark blacks of his robes and trousers.

The anticipation is unbearable. Harry writhes, groans, and eventually just reaches for his own cock, to have Snape viciously slap his hand away missing, but only narrowly, Harry's penis in the process. Snape straightens again to unbutton the next in the long row down the front of his under-vest, not quite so black as his under-coat. After what seems like eternity petrified in solid amber, hand-polished and expertly mounted into the wand holster presented to Harry by the Ministry of Magic which Harry promptly lost on purpose, Snape is just as nude as Harry.

When Harry rubs with his thumb his own steamy breath from off the lenses and puts his glasses on again, certain things do become most apparent. Snape is a rather appealing combination of long and elegant (his body, arms, legs, hands, and feet, for example,) unusually thin (such as his wrists, ankles, not to mention all those ribs that are showing,) or way too bloody big (the nose certainly, but most obviously of all, his cock.) A brilliant idea suddenly occurs to Harry, if only a bit too late. "You could spell all your clothes off, you know."

"I do," whispers Snape, reclining on the bed next to him, "but not tonight."

Harry feels a long hand stroke across his stomach. He moans and starts to roll toward Snape.

"Did I give you permission to move?"

"Sadist."

Snape shrugs. "If you wish it?"

"I DON'T!"

Snape plucks the glasses off of Harry's face and sets them on the stack of books on his bedside table. "Then turn face down and lie very still."

"Look. I'll likely come all over your covers if I do that now."

"Yet another peril that I am willing to face."

Harry turns and presses his cock into Snape's bed which might not be the very next best thing, but is still feeling absolutely amazing. Unfortunately for Harry he doesn't come. It takes every bit of restraint that he can muster not to grind himself against Snape's comforter. The last thing Harry wants is to give Snape any reason at all not to- Just now he feels Snape's fingers trail gently down his back and over the curve of his arse. Harry can't help it. He starts thrusting, rubbing himself into all that soft cotton and downy goodness.

Whack! The smack on his arse is more than hard enough to dissuade Harry from humping Snape's bed. "That almost hurt."

"Not as much as the next almost will. If you did not enjoy that, I suggest that you remain motionless."

Harry feels Snape leave the bed but knows he is still watching for any signs of forbidden bed-humping. Suddenly, Harry feels cold glass balanced on his back sending a tense chill the length of his spine and smells the most delicious scent that he dearly hopes belongs to some sort of a lubricant. Now he feels Snape's hot, bare knee nudging his legs apart. Harry complies, spreading his legs wide, careful all the while not to spill the bottle on his back if by some weird chance Snape, who always replaces caps and stoppers- but now the bottle is gone. He hears Snape mutter what he figures is a spell but can't tell what happens. Finally, the bed between his legs shifts.

Snape, he realizes is now kneeling between Harry's legs. Just the thought of that is almost enough to make Harry come. This is when Snape pours warmed oil onto Harry's back. The sensation is so unexpected that once again Harry doesn't come. What he does is release a moan and a globber of drool onto Snape's comforter. Considering the amount of oil just poured all over him, Harry doesn't figure Snape will notice or particularly mind about that little spot of saliva.

When Snape's strong hands start to knead the oil into Harry's shoulders, he is lost. There are sounds- loads of words, all Snape's and a lot of groaning, all his; but there is no sound in particular that Harry can concentrate a coherent thought around. No. There is only the most relaxing warm pleasure that Harry can ever remember experiencing. That euphoric pleasure doesn't remain specific to his shoulders either, it finds his neck, the base of his skull, his shoulder blades, his lower back, and at long last, his most grateful arse. "Please fuck me."

Snape snorts. "Do not imagine that I have never considered that option. As I would have thought you would know by now, that is the one thing for which you never have to ask in life."

"Oh! You know what I meant!"

"Do I?" Snape only ignores Harry's entrance all together in favor of bringing his deliriously delicious kneading to Harry's thighs, calves, and right foot. No one other than Harry has ever touched Harry's feet before. Harry can barely touch his own feet without tickling himself. Harry shrieks and kicks when all will-power dissolves into laughter. When Snape will not give up on the idea, Harry tries crawling away. The next thing he knows is Snape pushing him down and climbing on top of him, without ever releasing his foot. Harry can not move now. He can't laugh either. Harry counts himself lucky just being able to breathe. Snape feels like he's made of solid lead. He certainly weighs a whole lot more than Harry had expected he might just by looking at him. Soon Harry realizes how amazingly sexy a foot massage can feel.

"Left foot," Snape says in his best "detention, Potter" voice. Harry is certain he would have laughed at that, if Snape weren't naked and still sitting on top of him.

As soon as he can manage, not an easy accomplishment considering how relaxed he's become, Harry bends his other knee bringing his left foot up to Snape. Considering what happened to his right foot, Harry expects no quarter for his left foot. He is not disappointed. As soon as Snape grabs it, Harry convulses and starts to kick. Eventually the hypersensitivity subsides enough for Harry to start drooling on Snape's bed again.

When Harry's left foot is well massaged Snape slides off to lie next to Harry, as silent as- well, as a Snape except when Snape isn't silent, and right now Snape is, and isn't touching Harry at all. It takes a while for Harry to notice any of this and a while longer to start wondering why. When he does wonder, he rolls over so that he can more or less see Snape. Naturally, he expects Snape to inform him that Harry doesn't have permission to move a muscle. Instead, Snape pulls Harry to him, stroking his oily hands over Harry's face and into his hair while catching Harry's bottom lip between his own lips and sucking softly. Then he bites of course, though not quite hard enough to hurt.

When Snape's tongue finds his tongue and slides against it, it is as if Harry's whole world catches fire again. Snape's tongue is a flame licking him, igniting him from the inside. He realizes that he is sweating and shaking quite violently. He is starting to hallucinate sounds and colors too. Snape is certainly better than any fever dream he's ever had. The inferno of Snape's mouth burns a line across his jaw over his Adam's apple, straight across to his jugular. There the licking becomes hard and repetitive. From that epicenter, shockwaves of sensation radiate throughout every cell.

His cock is throbbing so much it aches. His brain feels in danger of short-circuiting all together. Harry hears himself screaming, not that he ever for a moment doubted Snape that he would scream, but thought for certain that something closer to Harry's idea of sex would be happening when he did. Snape has trampled all his thresholds. Snape is simply too intense a pleasure for one touch-starved young adult to bear gracefully.

Suddenly Snape's tongue is travelling again along with his oily hands, of which, to Harry, Snape suddenly seems to have at least six. Now Snape's hellish mouth is there at long last licking at his throbbing cock's head, flickering flames up under his foreskin, and slithering an unspeakably hot serpentine progression along the underside. Just when Harry knows that he knows what pleasure is, Snape's throat swallows him whole and raw like a snake. Rhythmic constrictions sucking him to a lifeless husk convince Harry that he knows nothing at all about pleasure or anything else. He comes begging every god in every pantheon to bless Slytherin House for being as big a den of sexual perversion as everyone else always suspected. Though he does so without uttering a recognizable syllable, Harry doesn't care if Snape does hear him. But something is definitely wrong.

He had arrived with the approximate velocity of the Knight Bus but Snape is still sucking and licking like he really is trying to consume Harry's soul. Merlin! Now Snape is licking his bollocks too, sucking them into his volcanic mouth, first one then the other, then both at the same time! Perhaps it is a sign of his own stupidity but Harry has never felt so entirely vulnerable before, not even when restrained in a cemetery by Voldemort. No, he had never felt so completely at another's mercy- and this is Snape, who has none whatsoever.

What is worse, what is really sick- Harry loves this! The dangers inherent to his current situation have caused him to lose some of his hardness but are making his cock twitch like a Weird Sister. When the Potter family jewels are returned or rather exchanged for Harry's cock, he isn't the least bit surprised when he enters semi-erect into that boiling wet heat and pops out harder than a Firebolt again mere seconds later.

"Face down on the bed. Accio edible lubricant!"

Edible lubricant! No wonder it had smelled so good. Trust Snape to only brew up one tasty potion in his entire lifetime and hoard that for his own personal pleasure. Not that he doesn't seem keen to share it with Harry now, but still! The delicious scent is stronger now. Harry doesn't think he'll have such a difficult turn at staying motionless this time. In fact, he is rather enjoying this lazy float of post-blow-job-bliss. Harry half hears another spell. Of course is expecting more warm oil to spill onto his back, instead of the near freezing oily finger snaking Snape's monogram down to his tailbone. The shock of it nearly levitates Harry off the bed.

Snape chuckles. Harry doesn't bother complaining. What's a cold finger if it leeches a bit of hot cruelty out of Snape's system?

Now Snape does heat the oil and does drizzle a fair amount onto Harry's back. Some of that is transferred to Snape's hands with the sort patience, thoroughness, and finesse one might expect from a Potions Master, though Harry doubts he will ever know quite what to expect from this one.

Snape gently coats the surrounding area first knowing how any of that tender skin can become chafed during a decent bout of anal intercourse. Then his warm fingers continue in a slow gyre until concentrating their affections on Harry's entrance. There is no pressure behind his touch, no invasion, just a light soothing stimulation to help Harry relax, prepare, and- ah, moan like a wanton harlot! Wouldn't James Potter be proud? "Are you certain that you wish to share this particular intimacy with me, Harry?" Snape says in his silkiest voice.

Oh Snape is clever. Never any question of that. Certainly not a bad time for him to refer to 'Potter' by given name for the first time ever, thinks Harry. As if any conversation isn't unbearably intimate when someone is delivering oil shipments to Uranus.

Still, he can't help grinning like the village idiot and is glad that Snape can't see- not because it breaks the rules of Snape's ridiculous little control games but because he'd hate for the man to know exactly how much hearing his name has pleased him. The only thing that just might please him more at the moment is if Snape lets Harry use his first name, too. There are two ways to find out. He could ask, or he could just say, "Yes Severus, I'm sure." As soon as he says it, Harry feels one of Snape's fingers slowly and gently penetrating him, spreading him like butter, spreading the lubricant deep inside of him.

"Clinging to vain hope for your continuing edification, I could hear that smile in your voice."

"Sorry."

"I'll bet you are."

Snape adds in another finger. Harry feels the two of them dancing the tango, scissoring this way and that to stretch him in all possible directions. After a while Snape slides the two out and gently returns with three. Then when Snape curls those three long fingers and works his prostrate, Harry hears himself howl and beg Snape never, ever to stop.

Typically, Snape picks right then to declare Harry prepared. "You have done this before?"

Harry doesn't answer right away. He thinks about Snape's impressive length and girth. "Um. Not really, no." He doesn't expect Snape to believe him. When Snape suddenly withdraws all contact, Harry realizes that he needs to clarify his statement. "I've never, well, you know, with someone as well-endowed down there. Not that I've had tons of men to compare or anything. I've only ever-"

"You have had a cock up your arse?"

"Yes."

"That is all I was asking."

Then Harry feels Snape's tongue, that tortures him so effectively with words, just as efficiently tormenting the area surrounding his entrance. Harry's brain melts like a bad batch of Fortescue's.

"Still, you wished to describe your previous experiences of anal intercourse?"

"Nuh."

"Too bad. You have made me curious. Tell me. When you stop, I'll stop. As you continue, so shall I."

"You. Are. So. Unfair!"

"Art imitates life. Would you care to proceed?"

"Well, you see, oh gods! Ron was the first co- oh fuck! -cock I ever had up my arse. When I told him I was, oh but that feels so- uh! When I told him I thought I might be keener on wizards, he wanted to, you know, ex-per-i-ment- ahh! Neither of us had a- a clue! -about preparation or even fucking really. He wore a Muggle condom because neither of us could remember the spells. We weren't sure that I couldn't get pregnant, either- That's not funny! There are rumors! Some bloke in Essex. Anyway, the condom package said 'lubricated' but I bled a bit. Gah! I hurt for days after. Him too or so he said. But we'd agreed ahead of time it was going to be a one time thing and, aahh! afterward Ron decided it, oh! that it never even happened at all."

Snape was licking him, actually circling his tongue directly against Harry's puckered hole now as though trying to soothe that memory of past hurt. It was a gesture that Harry would have to consider sweet, albeit in a really pervy way, were anyone else doing it.

"The next was- uuhh! Justin -fuck! Flinch-Felchy, I mean Finch-Fletchley since, you know, Justin had slept with ev- everyone and I, oh fuck! really needed to figure out what Ron and I did wrong. That turned out a one time thing too. I didn't think he'd want me for a, you know, a boyfriend or anything, but I never thought he'd go boasting to the Daily Prophet, but -uh- at least he admitted that it happened, I guess. Now there's you. I mean, if you'd want to. Severus? Please don't stop doing that just because I've- aah! sort of run out of things to say?"

Snape answers by penetrating Harry with his tongue. Harry couldn't form another coherent word now if his life and the whole of the Wizarding World depended on it. He could never have believed that Snape would do such a thing for anyone, and most especially not for him, or for that matter, that anyone would willingly tongue-fuck his arse. But that would be what Snape is doing, unless Harry really has gone completely mental and is just imagining Snape thrusting his tongue in, wriggling it around, withdrawing to lap at his entrance more, and thrusting in again.

It is blinding, this indescribably beautiful sensation. How is he supposed to continue to hold proper grudges against the man who is giving him this selflessly loving experience? Harry suspects he's going to have to find out. For now, Harry prays that Snape never stops. Unfortunately, when it doesn't seem as though Snape ever intends to stop, Harry starts to feel weirdly guilty. Soon he just rolls a bit, away from the number one greatest pleasure of his young life to date.

"Ready for something more?"

"Yes. No! I want-"

Harry looks down and bites his lip. He doesn't know how to ask Snape and doesn't want to ask in case Snape says no.

Instead of asking he crawls around on the bed and very slowly leans in, giving Snape plenty of opportunity to push him away. When Snape doesn't, he just brushes his mouth against Snape's mouth. Then pulls back a bit, sticks his tongue out, and traces the curves of Snape's lips. It seems important to kiss Snape and taste him after what he's done for Harry. Mainly, he doesn't want Snape to think that Harry wouldn't want to kiss him again. He doesn't want Snape to feel dirtied by the act or underappreciated for giving the gift of it to Harry. Harry isn't sure why any of this is so important to him. It is though. When Snape deepens the kiss what surprises Harry the most is how good Snape tastes, sort of like- "Mmm, marzipan!"

"That would be the almond oil in the lubricant."

"May I lick some? From off your cock?"

"As if anyone would say no."

"You might! Just to be cruel!"

"With hard work and dedication, I'm certain to discover some other means to that end. Accio edible lubricant!" Snape hands the lubricant to Harry then sprawls luxuriously on his back. "Bon appetit."

Harry retrieves his glasses so he can see what he is doing and watch Snape while he is doing it. Snape is hardly even Snape like this, with long greasy hair radiating like a dark halo on his pillow and miles of smooth pale skin, surprisingly unblemished- apart from the Dark Mark of course, which may have been kind of cool had it just been some meaningless Muggle tattoo. Even his face, like this, all relaxed, not scowling or sneering for once, looks strangely attractive in a rugged, individual, striking sort of way. Harry crawls down between Snape's legs that are long, lightly covered with soft dark hairs, and well-muscled, no doubt from all those years of kinky spy sex, special DE training, and overly-dramatic corridor swooping.

He braces his hands on Snape's thighs and leans forward. Snape's heat and heady musk seem to envelope Harry as he tentatively laps at a tiny pearl forming at the tip. Oddly enough, Snape doesn't taste bitter. Nor is he as metallic as Harry's own essence. He is far more on the sweet and salty side. As come goes, Harry finds Snape's rather pleasantly tasty, entirely reminiscent of every Muggle snack food under the sun. It might take him a long while to figure out which one Snape tastes like most. Harry figures he'll wait until then to mention his startling discovery to Snape.

His tongue continues its travels around Snape's cockshead, flicking up under his foreskin making Snape's muscles tense before sucking the head into his mouth. He is rewarded with a single groan from deep in Snape's throat that seems to reverberate in Harry. He can feel that sound in own his cock. Try as he might he can't find a way to take in all of Snape, certainly not from this angle. Instead, he wraps a Quidditch grip around the base and occupies his mouth by sucking the rest and wriggling his tongue along the underside.

Harry's free hand explores his surrounding area. Snape's hair though very dark and thicker here is surprisingly soft and not the least bit greasy either, well not yet. The texture of Snape's scrotum reminds Harry of those tapestries hanging in the corridors at Hogwarts- coursely woven silk, obsessively alluring, and yet forbidden to the touch. Everyone does touch those tapestries though, or at least so Harry imagines.

He slips his hand under Snape's heavy fullness putting pressure behind his balls. Harry hears Snape draw a sharp breath though his teeth and looks up. Snape's eyes are closed. His face is contorted in what looks to be a silent scream. Those elegant hands are gripping the comforter beneath him, white-knuckled. His body is rigid as if he were exerting a painful amount of self-control. Harry figures he must be doing something right.

Perhaps now is the time to taste that edible lubricant? Harry uncorks the bottle, pours a generous amount into his hand, corks the bottle again, and sets it on the floor by the bed. He rubs his hands together briskly to take the chill off, then starts massaging oil onto Snape's cock. It is like some grand and magnificent piece of architecture, like that Leaning Tower of Whatsit thing in Italy somewhere, or is it in Spain?

Harry starts at the base, alternating his hands, pulling the oil upward toward the head as he goes. This is the same way he likes to soap his own cock when he is lucky enough to shower with that level of privacy. On his second stroke up over the head, Snape sits bolt upright and grabs Harry's shoulders pulling him up and away from Snape's cock. Then he steals his glasses again.

"But I never even tasted your lubricant!"

"Lick it off your fingers."

"But I-"

Snape licks and sucks Harry's fingers for him and feeds Harry the flavor with his tongue. While this is happening, Snape wrestles Harry around on the bed. Though Snape is still kissing him, Harry is now prone with Snape completely covering him, sliding his slick cock between the mounds of Harry's slick arse.

"Do you want this?" That voice is warm edible lubricant dripping directly into Harry's soul through his ear.

"Yesss!"

Snape stills. "Ask me now for exactly what you want. Do this- properly."

"Dear Severus Snape, Please bugger my randy arse because you hate me. Sincerely, Harry Potter. -Properly- enough?"

"Your request was adequate."

"Did that mean that you'll do it?"

"No. I shall though."

This time, when Harry smiles at Snape, Snape says nothing at all. He pecks the closest corner of that smile and rolls off of Harry. "Up. On to your hands and knees."

As soon as he changes position Harry feels Snape, or rather his huge cock, there at his doorstep, so to speak. Snape wraps a hand around to gently stroke him. "I have long awaited a time when I could show you -properly- how much I 'hate' you, Harry." He whispers this and in one smooth movement glides past Spawn of James, The-Boy-Who-Lived, Gryffindor's Golden Boy, Dumbledore's Favorite, Hope of the Wizarding World, Potter, and stills completely inside of Harry, just Harry.

They stay frozen in that fragile and impossibly intimate moment, with Snape nuzzling his neck and stroking him too gently to be anything other than pleasant distraction from his initial discomfort until Harry says, "Wait's over, Severus. Show me."

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- There will be at least one more chapter. I love hearing from anyone about anything. All comments, criticisms, corrections, even flames are treasured, as are each of you, my dear readers.


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